


Put Loneliness on the Shelf

by Tiny_Dragongirl



Category: When Calls the Heart (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coffee Shops, F/M, First Kiss, Libraries, Love Confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 03:27:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17779715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiny_Dragongirl/pseuds/Tiny_Dragongirl
Summary: In which Abigail Stanton, coffeeshop owner and a fan of all things bright and sunny meets the human embodiment of an extremely capricious stray cat, tames him with pie and persistent questions, and together, they save a library. Somewhere along the way, true love happens.





	Put Loneliness on the Shelf

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flannelgiraffe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flannelgiraffe/gifts).



It’s the first warm day of the year.

 

It makes people smile more and frown less. The kids can forget their warmest jumpers in the wardrobe and their mothers won’t chide them for it anymore. Lovebirds can take off their gloves and hold hands, skin on skin. The girl from the green house (every town should have a house with walls painted such jovial shade of green) opens her window and sings along with the birds. The old lady with the grey cat called Tilly, leans on the fence and the postman stops to chat for a few minutes. Mr. Abernathy puts a pillow on his favourite chair and reads the morning paper on the porch. Abigail takes out her bicycle from the shed and pedals her way to work.

 

Abigail waves, nods and smiles, left and right, as she passes her equally cheerful neighbours and other familiar faces. Her honey-blonde hair catches the light, the sun playfully caressing her head and face. How she enjoys this weather! She always looks at the world with a calm and balanced optimism, ready to face anything a new morning brings but, even with such a steady mildness, there are days when winter can be hard to endure. Abigail feels grateful not having to put up with one more day of coldness and greyness. Now comes the season of bicycle rides and long walks, stolen moments with a good book just before leaving for work, basking in the morning sun with a cup of coffee, gardening, the smell of flowers and wet earth, home-made cakes with fresh fruits, and all the bright colours like harsh green, fairy purple or Africa orange. It’s the season of new beginnings.

 

The first customer at the café is Elizabeth. She arrived to the town almost five years ago as Miss Elizabeth Thatcher, aspiring young teacher, and quickly became a close friend of Abigail—even lived under Abigail’s roof for a while! Now Elizabeth’s called Mrs. Thornton, and lives with her husband, Jack. Even though she shares her breakfasts with him, whenever she has the time, Elizabeth still likes to pop in the café and drink an extra morning tea or coffee with Abigail.

 

“Good morning, Abigail.”

 

Maybe Abigail’s eyes are deceiving her but Elizabeth’s smile seems brighter this morning.

 

“You look good, Elizabeth. Tea or coffee today?”

 

“A cup of coffee and scrambled eggs, please. Jack had a long night, he left a note asking me not to wake him, so I decided to have breakfast with you, if you’re amenable.”

 

However, their breakfast is cut short as the morning rush arrives: people seem to flood the little café. Apparently half the town wishes to enjoy the morning sun with at least a take-away coffee, so Abigail’s busy taking orders, pouring coffee, and ringing up. She flashes an apologetic smile at her friend as Elizabeth waves and leaves for school. When Abigail goes over to the table to collect the empty plate and cup, she finds a bag of books under the seat. She makes a mental note to call Elizabeth as soon as possible before she gets a heart-attack over losing her precious books.

 

Elizabeth beats her to it; she calls Abigail from school during first recess. “Hello, Abigail, sorry to disturb you, but didn’t I forget my—”

 

“—books here? Yes, you did, but don’t worry, I rescued them from under the seat.”

 

She can hear Elizabeth breathe a sigh of relief at the other end of the line.

 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you! You’re a treasure. Those are library books, so I’d have been in serious trouble if I had lost them. Molly, the librarian, would have bitten off my nose! I have to return them today.”

 

Abigail looks out of the window at the sunlit street and a sudden idea hits her. “Where is this library? I could return them for you.”

 

“Just a few blocks from the café, but are you sure?”

 

“Yeah, why not? The morning rush is over, and Becky can take care of the café while I’m out. It’d be nice to take a walk in this weather. Just text me the address.”

 

Elizabeth practically squeaks: “You’re a treasure, a jewel, a darling! This way I can go home directly after school and spend the evening with Jack. Thank you!”

 

Abigail keeps on smiling after she hangs up. She’s never seen two people so much in love like Elizabeth and Jack. Well, young love is beautiful!

 

Abigail can’t understand how she failed to notice a whole library so near to her café. She’s spent most of her life in this town, she should know it like the back of her hand. Although when she sees the library for the first time, she’s not that surprised anymore. It’s a small building in the middle of the greyish, sad-looking street. There is an old, crumbling house with an overgrown garden at the corner of the street, and a closed, deserted barbershop opposite to the library. The all-night drugstore is open but its neglected look (smeared windows, peeling off paint) doesn’t attract too much attention. If Abigail thought this morning that her street was lit by endless new possibilities, this must be the street of endless remembrance.

 

The library looks decent enough, though, but it has an atmosphere of sadness around it. How on Earth could Elizabeth find this very library, Abigail wonders. Most likely a unique reference book on education must have pulled her in. But of course, looks can be deceiving, so Abigail climbs the three steps leading up to the door (no barrier-free access, ah-ha!) and enters the building to get a closer look.

 

Deep silence greets her inside—the silence of a room without people. The neon lights are buzzing, a faint but persistent sound, the shelves creak and crunch occasionally, steadily supporting so many books, yet nobody is around to read them.

 

Except the man behind the desk who is eyeing Abigail quite suspiciously.

 

“Good morning,” Abigail greets him, taking a curious step closer because she definitely, definitely remembers Elizabeth mentioning someone called Molly. No way she misheard her.

 

“Can I help you? This is a library, so if you are looking for a—”

 

Abigail interjects before he could make any suggestions what he thinks she would be looking for: “No, actually, I just didn’t expect… well, you.”

 

“Do we know each other?”

 

If he always uses this unfriendly tone with everyone, no wonder the place is so empty. Abigail takes a deep breath and tries to explain her situation: “No, sorry, I mean my friend told me Molly would be here…? I came to return her books but I’ve never been here before, obviously. Of this I’m not proud, as I love to read, I love books, and you are definitely not a Molly.”

 

“You have a remarkable sense of perceptiveness.” That’s his only comment before making a reach for the books.

 

“I’m sorry if I offended you.” Abigail’s response is almost equally sarcastic. She means it—but she means the sarcasm, too.

 

“You didn’t. Usually Molly has the afternoon shifts. I expect your friend comes in here after three.”

 

Who is this man, Sherlock Holmes? His manners would certainly match the detective’s.

 

“Yeah, she’s a teacher, so—”

 

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

 

Abigail frowns but soon her frown turns into a smile that could be almost called mischievous. “Actually, yes, you can. I’d like to registrate.”

 

“All right.” He gives her a pen and a registration form. “You need to fill this out.”

 

She hands it back a minute later with all the fields filled in, the gesture accompanied by a soft smile. “There you are, Mr…?”

 

His face remains impassive.  “Gowen. Henry Gowen.”

 

Abigail pretends not to hear the sulkiness in his voice. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Gowen. My name is Abigail Stanton.”

 

“Yeah, thank you, I can read.” He folds the registration form and puts it away. “Here, your library card.”

 

Abigail feels a strong urge to slap this man. How can someone be so nasty on such a beautiful morning?!

 

“Thank you,” she says cheerfully because she’s stronger than her urges and it’s more fun to annoy him rather than be annoyed by him. “I’ll take a quick look around.”

 

“Tell me if you need help.”

 

“Oh, I will.”

 

In the end Abigail doesn’t ask for help; she’s quite capable of choosing a book to read. She picks _The White Bone_ by Barbara Gowdy because she remembers liking her other novel, _Mister Sandman_ , so maybe this one is worth the time as well.

 

“How come there isn’t anyone around?” Abigail’s about to leave, really, she needs to get back for lunch hours, yet she can’t help but ask. “I know people are at work or school at this time of the day, but where are the others? The pensioners, for example.”

 

“Well, you might have noticed that this is not the most interesting area of the town. There is nothing here.” They haven’t been acquainted for more than half an hour but by this point Abigail’s pretty sure that dear Mr. Gowen mentally shrugs his shoulders whenever he speaks.

 

“There are books, so basically everything is here!” Abigail argues. “Also, my café is just a few blocks away from your library and there are always people around.”

 

“People probably prefer eating to reading.”

 

She could debate further but she hasn’t got the time, as she can’t let Becky cover for lunch.

“Probably. Thank you for your help, Mr. Gowen. Have a nice day!”

 

“Goodbye, Ms. Stanton.”

  
  
  


 

 

 

Three days later the door of Abigail’s café opens and Henry Gowen walks in.

 

The first thing Abigail notices is how unsure he looks, like he can’t decide whether he’s come to the right place or not. He looks at her and Abigail can see recognition flash in his eyes but he still seems to feel unsettled about being there.

 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gowen.”

 

It’s around half past three and nobody is in the café apart from the two of them. The lunch rush is over, Becky’s already left (she only works here part-time when she doesn’t have classes at the university), and usually no bigger crowd is expected before five or six.

 

“Are you here to remind me not to tear the cover of my library book?” Abigail asks playfully.

 

“I’m here to eat.”

 

He isn’t in a bad mood but it’s not a good one either. Maybe he’s grumpy all the time—or maybe he’s just extremely reserved.

 

“Well, have a seat. What can I get you?”

 

“The most expensive item on the menu.”

 

“Wow! What are you celebrating? If I’m not indiscreet.”

 

“Nothing, unless I was celebrating finding your café. You said it was a few blocks from the library but you didn’t give the exact directions.” And that mental shrugging, again. Abigail can almost picture his shoulders moving. It’s wondrous how much effort he puts into not caring.

 

“All right, Mr. Mysterious, I won’t interrogate you. One filet mignon coming up. Baked or mashed potatoes?”

 

“Both. And some corn fritters.”

 

Abigail stops mid-motion. “Fritters?”

 

“And a little pie after,” he adds.

 

“You can’t possibly eat all that food.”

 

“You just watch me.” His tone’s almost as challenging as her _“Oh, I will”_ was at the library.

 

So Abigail _does_ watch him in the end. After serving him the food she has little else to do as there’s still no other customer in sight.

 

“I know it was practically a call to action but I’d prefer if you took a seat rather than glaring at me from behind the counter,” Gowen says eventually.

 

“Says the man who glared at me from behind his desk.”

 

“Also, you could have a piece of my pie. It’s not that I can’t eat it—”

 

Abigail smiles, rummages up a fork from the drawer, and takes a seat. “Thank you for the offer. You know, this is why I love this café so much. People come in, sometimes laughing, sometimes grousing, and tell me stories from their life—sometimes nice things, sometimes sad things. They share their memories with me. Or—” she takes a bite “—their pie.”

 

“So you’re that kind of business woman who wins her customers over with the excellent cooking, a sympathetic ear, and some kind words. You been long in the business?”

 

“Not really. I opened my café four years ago. It was a God-sent idea.” Memories flood Abigail’s mind so sudden and bright they make her blink rapidly. “I mean, my Noah always kept bragging about what a marvelous cook I was but you know, I never imagined how in five years time I would sit in my own café and dig into my customer’s pie.”

 

“Noah is— is he your son?” Gowen asks gingerly.

 

“My late husband,” Abigail’s tone is equally careful. “ Look, I don’t mean to be too forward—” She takes a deep breath and starts over: “My husband and my son died five years ago. If you remember that terrible fire where forty-seven people lost their lives… They were among them. Both of them worked as firemen; we all knew the risks they had to take everyday.”

 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Henry Gowen says that sympathetically but he looks very uncomfortable. He’s definitely not used to strangers being so open towards him.

 

Abigail almost regrets sharing her story but quickly brushes off the feeling. After all, _he_ asked her about the café and in one way the death of her boys led her to this decision. She just had to do something with her life—something that wasn’t grief or loneliness. This café is her second chance, and the people who come here and fill the days with laughter and sometimes sorrow... well, they bring her everyday share of happiness.

 

They sit in silence for a while until Dr. Shepherd, one of Abigail’s regular customers, pops in for a cup of coffee.

 

“Uh, hello, Carson.” Abigail springs up from her seat, hastily grabbing Henry’s empty plate. “Sorry, you don’t need this anymore, do you? I mean, I should have asked you first before taking it— Excuse me, Carson, I’ll be with you in a moment.”

 

“It’s okay, Abigail,” the good doctor smiles. Everybody’s smiling a lot these days—it must be the weather. “I’ve come for my usual infusion. I felt I needed to clear the disinfectant from my nose and a cup of strong, black coffee with the slight breeze blowing on the streets can do wondrous things.”

 

“Dr. Shepherd works at the hospital, just around the corner,” Abigail explains to Gowen while clearing off the table and switching on the coffee-machine. “He’s always very patient with his, well, patients—and with me.”

 

“I see.”

 

Gowen doesn’t look very eager to get to know the good doctor but he quickly finds himself shaking hands with Carson Shepherd.

 

“And Mr. Gowen works at the library in, er, Redemption Street,” Abigail chips in. “Wait a minute, I’ve never noticed before that street is actually called Redemption.”

 

“I’ve a patient living there. Mrs. McCormick. She’s never mentioned the library,” Dr. Shepherd frowns. “But of course, she barely mentions anything that isn’t strictly necessary to be said.”

 

“Lots of people do that,” Gowen shrugs, this time visibly, not just mentally, with his hat in one hand, his other hand already on the doorknob. “Good day, Mrs. Stanton. Dr. Shepherd.”

  
  


 

 

 

Rainy days come, dampening Abigail’s good mood until she gets a brilliant idea:

 

“Could you cover for half an hour, Becky, please? I must go to the library and borrow a book, maybe two, about Africa. I need the sun, at least on paper. I’ll be back in a blink of an eye.”

 

Redemption Street looks as grey as ever but Abigail practically hops over the puddles (and sometimes into them, when she missteps) and soon she is inside the library, putting her umbrella into the umbrella stand.

 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gowen. I didn’t expect you to have the afternoon shift.”

 

Abigail’s surprised to see Mr. Grumpy behind the desk but it’s not an unpleasant surprise.

 

“It seems that I repeatedly fail to meet your expectations.”

 

Is that a joke or pure sarcasm? So sad Abigail doesn’t have the time to figure it out. She quickly chooses two books about Africa (a novel and a non-fiction), slamming them down on the circulation desk in no time.

 

“Africa? Interesting choice,” Gowen comments. Apparently, he stopped mentally shrugging his shoulder and now prefers to sarcastic remarks.

 

“I needed a sunny place in my life,” Abigail explains. “Also, it might come in handy if I end up in Africa one day. Who knows where will I be in five years time?”

 

“Why five years? Why not four or ten?”

 

“I’ll tell you one day but not now, sorry. It’d be awesome to chat but I need to rush and go back to the café, so Becky won’t be late from her class. Oh, look, it stopped raining. This is my cue! Bye!”

 

Abigail Stanton is a grown-up woman, known to be wise and collected. Everybody can ask her for advice or help—be them a friend, a neighbour or a customer. She rarely loses her temper and she doesn’t make hasty decisions. She isn’t a meddler, quite the opposite. She doesn’t like to make people uncomfortable, neither friends nor strangers. And she definitely, definitely doesn’t start babbling like a teenage girl in front of strangers.

 

Oh, and she doesn’t forget her umbrella.

 

Later that afternoon the rain starts again and it looks very much like Abigail’s going to get very wet on her way home. She tries to put off closing time as much as she can (she checks twice that every machine is switched off, every crumb is swept away), but the rain doesn’t abate, not even a little bit. As a last, desperate solution she’s toying with the idea of covering her head with a tablecloth (she would make quite a sight), when the door opens and Henry Gowen steps in with her bottle-green umbrella in his hand.

 

“I hoped I would find you still here,” and he lifts her umbrella.

 

“Thank you, Henry.”

 

She’s so grateful if it wasn’t for his wet coat, she’d be hugging him right now.

 

“No big deal.”

 

Ah-ha, so we are back to mentally shrugging our shoulders, aren’t we?

 

“Well, you know the saying about how small things make big things happen.”

 

They leave together: Henry holds the umbrella over them while Abigail closes the café. It’s dark and raining outside, but they have a green umbrella to share.

 

“So, why five years?” he asks as they start walking. For the first time Abigail notices that Henry is slightly limping. Did he limp the last time she saw him…? It’s hard to say when he spends most of his time behind a desk, but if she strains her memory a bit she can remember: he was limping back then when he came for lunch to the café. She’s curious to ask what happened to his leg but first she needs to answer his question.

 

“So, you know the song _In 5 Years Time_ by Noah and the Whale…”

 

“I certainly don’t.”

 

Abigail wishes she’d have any device with herself to show the song. Maybe she should start listening to music on her phone or just buy an mp3-player.

 

“See, it’s all about where could we be in five years time.”

 

“Where?”

 

“Anywhere! That’s the point. We could walk around a zoo, be in love, or might just not speak anymore. We cannot know, but there are some things, good things, that stay with us in a way, for sure. I think this is a nice song, but what I like the most about it that they sing so happily about the sun. I love the sun. It gives us light and warmth, and I’m grateful for these things. Especially for the warmth, I just hate to be cold.” And wet, by the way, so she’s going to be grateful to Henry for… for at least five years? “Do you have a song you especially love? A band maybe?”

 

Henry shrugs, accidentally shaking off the rain from the umbrella. (It seems he forgot to hand it to Abigail after the closing up.) “No, I don’t think so. Mostly I just stick to Leonard Cohen.”

 

“Excellent choice.”

 

It’s kind of a challenge to share an umbrella without any body contact, so Abigail holds onto Henry’s elbow—easier to maneuver. Their steps might fall differently but they manage to stay in stride.

 

“But of course, who doesn’t like Leonard Cohen?”

 

“Do you have a list?” Henry asks. “Like, you know, question number one: what kind of person doesn’t like Leonard Cohen? Question number two: why does toilet paper need a commercial? Who is not buying toilet paper? Etcetera.”

 

“Marketing, I guess?” But she smiles because he’s just made joke. Ninety-eight percent it was a joke—she will save two percents for sarcasm. “But yes, sometimes I make lists. Not about questions so pointless as mere words in the wind but the things I like, the blessings of the day. Small things I give thanks for. Like you returning my forgotten umbrella—or escorting me safely home.”

 

They’re standing in front of Abigail’s house now, facing each other under the safety of the famous green umbrella.

 

“Would you like to come in for a hot cup of tea or coffee?”

 

“No, thank you.”

 

“You sure? It’d be a nice change in the line of my lonely evenings.” But she prods Henry in vain, he just shakes his head. “All right, I don’t want to pressure you. Do you have your own umbrella with you to go home? I’d gladly lend you mine.”

 

“Thank you, but my jacket will do just fine.”

 

Abigail’d like to ask him about his blessings but she feels he’s not ready to share. She wonders if he’s ever going to be—or if there is anyone whom he trusts enough to open up to them. Henry seems lonely and this makes Abigail ask herself: what if she is lonely, too?

 

Well, she isn’t going to get her questions answered that evening.

 

“Good night, Abigail.”

 

“It is. Thanks to you,” she smiles. “Be careful on your way home.”

 

She stands in her rain-soaked garden until Henry’s figure disappears around the corner.

  
  


 

 

 

The next day Abigail prepares a lunch package for Henry, and takes it over to the library after the morning rush. The weather’s slightly better than yesterday, there is only a light drizzle now. Her umbrella can stay at the café, the hood of her coat will be enough. (Or she hopes so.) Half-way she realises there’s a chance she won’t find Henry at work—if he had the afternoon shift yesterday, having it all week would be only logical. Well, she won’t stop now; she can always leave a note with the package.

 

Henry’s behind his desk. When Abigail inquires how their shifts are divided between them, he informs her that Molly’s called in sick for the week.

 

“So, how can _I_ help you?”

 

Are her eyes cheating Abigail or he does seem more standoffish today?

 

“Actually, I’m not here on library business.” She hands him the package. “These are for you. Just some scones and sandwiches.”

 

“Are you bribing me?” It could be asked jokingly but the question isn’t accompanied by a smile. But of course, Henry Gowen rarely smiles.

 

“No, I’m thanking you.”

 

His eyes narrow. Uh-oh. He’s not in a good mood today.

 

“You forgot your umbrella and I returned it to you because your café was on my way. Don’t read much into it.”

 

That almost sounds rude and Abigail’s clearly taken aback by his comment.

 

“I see. And you escorted me home because my house was on your way, too, I guess.”

 

“You can go now.”

 

Abigail purses her lips with a knowing look on her face, as if she could further comment upon the topic, but she holds herself back. She just nods and turns to leave.

 

“Thank you for lunch,” Henry calls after her.

  
  


 

 

 

Abigail doesn’t see Henry until next Monday. She’s too busy and maybe a bit hurt to face him. Henry wanders in around two o’clock with the unsure look on his face he puts up every time he nears the café.

 

“I was on my way to work and I thought: why not to stop by for a cup of coffee and maybe one of those delicious sandwiches…?” he says, trying to look casual. As if.

 

Why can’t people just say _“I apologise”_ or _“Forgive me”_ or a simple _“sorry”_? Why?!

 

“Good idea,” Abigail smiles gently. How can a man look so self-confident and insecure at the same time? “Well, are you going to take a seat or should I prepare a take-away?”

 

“I think I have time to enjoy my lunch here. I’m afraid I’m a bit early for work.”

 

“You could develop it into a habit,” Abigail suggests. He casts her a questioning glance and she throws up her arms—which looks kind of funny because in her left hand she’s holding a slice of cheese. “Just saying. Normally there isn’t anyone around about this time of the day, and I won’t make you chat with me if you don’t want to.” She shakes the cheese at him before putting it on the bread, for good measure.

 

“A tempting offer, but I’m not sure how long I’ll have my job.”

 

Abigail frowns, placing the plate with the sandwich and a cup in front of him. “What’s the matter, Henry?”

 

“Nothing really, except not enough readers in the library. Our attendance rates are too low, and apparently it’s too expensive for the town to finance a useless library.”

 

“Libraries are meant to preserve knowledge, not to make profit,” Abigail argues heatedly.

 

“I don’t know. Maybe they just don’t need us.”

 

His indifference challenges Abigail to contend. “We must do something about this.” And to take a seat at his table. “We must show the people how important your library is.”

 

“But is it?”

 

“Yes, it is, and you know that quite well, Henry.” Or she hopes he does. “I’m going to ask Elizabeth if she has any ideas how to solve this problem. A little brainstorming can work miracles. Elizabeth could take her students to the library, for example, and I could advertise the place to my customers. You and Molly could make some book-related competitions, surely that would pull some people in.”

 

“And why would you do that?” Henry huffs.

 

“Because I care about what happens to the library and to you, what do you think?”

 

“I think that you’re bored and you want something to entertain yourself. Something to make you feel good and confident, so you can go to sleep with the comforting thought of making an effort.”

 

Abigail could argue with these accusations—however, she just reminds herself that Henry might be worried about his job. It’s not nice to kick the one who wants to help you but she can take it just this once. “You’re mistaken if you think you don’t need anyone.”

 

“I don’t want your help and you definitely don’t need me.” Henry gets up, a bit stiffly. “I think we’re done here.”

 

“We’re done.”

 

It makes Abigail wonder if this is the first time they’re in agreement over something.

 

Abigail’s fuming with anger all afternoon. Of course, she won’t let her customers notice it—she looks as calm and collected as ever but deep inside she’s fire. She can pretend, she just hates to. She hates to turn the world the face of joy when she is unhappy, she hates to say _“I’m okay”_ when she is not. She wants to be happy which is a huge difference from simply looking happy. Henry Gowen puts a lot of effort into pretending he doesn’t care. Why would anyone do that to himself? Why wear the mask of a grumpy, unfriendly librarian? Why hurt those who offer help?

 

Abigail can’t believe he doesn’t want to be happy. It’s basically coded into people to seek happiness, it’s a natural instinct. And it’s natural to fail, of course, but still—people should never give up on trying, in her opinion, no matter how old. Henry’s not even that old; he’s about the same age as Abigail and she doesn’t feel old, not the least.

 

“What’s wrong, Abigail?” Elizabeth asks her. She’s been sitting at the counter and chatting casually—or Abigail thought so, but it seems her anger got noticed.

 

“Why would you ask that?”

 

“No idea. Maybe because you’re talking cheerfully about the upcoming sunny days but simultaneously you’re rinsing that plate so hard as if it had personally hurt your feelings.”

 

“My feelings are not hurt.” Abigail waves the clout in frustration. Fine. She won’t lie to her best friend. “Well, there is Henry Gowen— You know, the other librarian beside Molly.”

 

“I’ve met him once, but he didn’t spare more than two words on me. He looks like a real sourpuss.”

 

“That’s him, alright.”

 

“Did he hurt your feelings?” Elizabeth asks with a frown, as if she couldn’t quite imagine how a man who rarely says more than two words, could hurt anyone.

 

“No. Yes. Maybe! He said I was pretending to keep up appearances.” Abigail didn’t intend to complain to Elizabeth but it might help to voice her thoughts out loud.

 

“So he can talk?” Elizabeth mocks Henry, making Abigail smile.

 

“Seems so. I thought that we were making slow but steady progress for something like a friendship but— But apparently he doesn’t want anything from me or anyone else.”

 

“Why are you worried about him in the first place?”

 

Abigail sighs. It’s getting late and she’s getting tired. “See, the problem is that if the attendance rates of the library don’t go higher in the foreseeable future, it’ll be closed down. I offered him help but Henry got angry with me, which turned me into this plate-torturing fury you see here.”

 

“I know you meant good but being pitied can hurt someone’s pride.”

 

“I didn’t pity him! I actually care about him.”

 

“Did you tell him that?” Elizabeth has the best questions tonight.

 

“Well, I tried, hence came the accusation of me pretending.”

 

“Since he’s such an old sourpuss, maybe you just need to try a bit harder to drive it home to him.” Elizabeth gives an encouraging smile, before gathering her things and getting up. “I think you’ve had a long day, so why don’t call it a night and go home a bit earlier? I vote you half an hour more rest tonight.”

 

“Thank you, Elizabeth.”

 

But now, having her troubles off her chest, Abigail doesn’t go home straight away. First, she visits the library because there is a chance that Henry Gowen will be the death of her but she will take him with her, that’s for sure. If he doesn’t want to hear what she says, she’s going to bring a megaphone to the party.

 

“We’re closing in five minutes,” Henry says before looking up. When he recognizes Abigail, immediately an _“oh, it’s you”_ expression appears on his face. He’s obviously surprised to see her so soon after their fight but it’s not a clearly unpleasant surprise. A bit uncomfortable on his part, maybe.

 

“Hello, Henry.”

 

He clears his throat, composing his features. “I thought we were done here.”

 

“Yeah, me too, but then someone made me realise there is a reason we met.”

 

“I don’t need to listen to your sappy reasoning,” he snaps.

 

All right. Here comes the megaphone.

 

“Yes, you do, and you’re going to hear me out whether you like it or not. Especially when I’m about to tell you that you were right after all.” Henry casts her a puzzled glance. “I want to save this library for purely selfish reasons. I need you. In five years time I want to barge into this very library and find you behind this very desk, asking me if you can help. I want to say yes, I need a book about Africa and maybe a good novel by Dickens. I want you to come into my café, on your way to work or home, for a coffee and maybe to chat a bit. Of course, there is a slight chance that in five years time I’ll learn how to keep silent around you.” Abigail takes a deep breath. “I mean it. Everybody deserves a second chance. I want to give this library a second chance so I won’t have to lose you. I can’t make you need me but maybe you could contemplate giving me a second chance.”

 

Henry doesn’t say anything and there is an unreadable expression on his face now.

 

“I will go now and leave you to close. But I’ll be back tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow. And the day after that. In the meantime, you know where to find me.”

 

They maintain eye contact for almost a whole minute. Henry is the first to avert his eyes.

 

“Good night, Henry.”

  
  


 

 

 

The next morning Henry’s pacing up and down in front of the café when Abigail arrives to open. She dismounts her bicycle and parks it at the red sidewalk bike rack. Even the rack forms someone cycling—how meta.

 

“Good morning,” she greets him, while fiddling with her keys and the lock. “I’ll need a few more minutes to get the place ready for the day, so would you just take a seat, please?”

 

“While I’d be glad to have a cup of coffee, actually I’m here to talk. If you are amenable.”

 

“If you don’t mind me moving around, I’m all ears.”

 

Henry looks unsure which gets her hopes up: if he was here to give her a piece of his mind, his attitude would be entirely different. Abigail still can’t understand him but she’s getting better and better at speaking _Gowenese_.

 

“See, I was thinking and I came up with the idea of a week-long competition. At the library, I mean.” While he’s talking, Henry’s busy shuffling the pepper and salt shaker on the counter until Abigail puts them away. Their hands meet for the briefest touch. “Er, sorry. So, as I was saying, a competition, mostly for kids, but you know, surely their parents would accompany them, and it could be interesting for the adults, too, because— Well, you see, it could go like this: someone talks about, I don’t know, Africa, for example, on Monday. Like a lecture, but more casual. And nothing too long! Just about fifteen minutes, then it’s playtime, all games and quizzes centered around that day’s topic. Make a papermaché mask in African style, name as many countries of Africa as you can, things like these.”

 

“I like the sound of it,” Abigail says while putting a cup of coffee in front of Henry because she can listen and work like magic at the same time.

 

“Of course, I don’t know yet where we’ll find the money for all of this, but as soon as Molly comes back from her sick leave I’m going to discuss this idea with her. She knows a lot of people, she might get them to pitch in in one way or another. I could try to get the town committee to back this little competition or I don’t know how we should call it. Anyway, I’ll take care of the financial matters but I need someone to oversee and conduct the whole thing.”

 

“Can’t Molly do that?”

 

“Molly’s never done anything like this before and she’s going to have a lot on her plate, so we’ll need an extra pair of hands.” Henry looks up from his coffee, gazing directly into Abigail’s eyes. “I need your help, Abigail. Please. I know you have a business to run but maybe I could help out here in exchange or—”

 

“It’s okay, Henry. I’ll manage.” She almost reaches out to pat his hand comfortingly but quickly changes her mind and grabs an empty cup instead, placing it two centimetres farther on. It’s a delicate moment, let’s not ruin it with some skin-to-skin contact. “I’ll ask Elizabeth, I’m sure she and Jack would be happy to help. Maybe Clara, too.”

 

“I thought your right hand here was called Becky,” he frowns.

 

“Yes, yes, but Clara… She was my son’s fiancée. Peter died but we kept in touch. She hasn’t got any living relatives, nor do I, so we—” This might be overstepping more boundaries than patting a hand would have been but she can’t help it. The words pour out of her mouth, uncontrollably. “It might sound selfish but it helped me a lot to have someone who loves and misses Peter as much as me. Someone to share the memories. For a while it hurt beyond words even to think or talk about them. But that’s how you keep someone alive—through the memories.”

 

Henry opens his mouth to say something but, unable to find the words, he closes it again.

 

“Don’t worry, I won’t cry. Any minute now someone can walk through that door, saying good morning, asking for breakfast, and reminding me why I have to go on living my life. Is it heartless to say that I don’t want to just live but I want to live a happy and full life?”

 

“I think it’s perfectly normal, but what do _you_ think?”

 

“Since I assured Clara that it was perfectly normal to move on, meet new people, find love, and she didn’t have to feel guilty about it, well, I wouldn’t want to be a false prophet in my own country, would I? Peter would have wanted her to be happy and grieving in your whole life is not the key to happiness, I can tell you that. I’ll never forget my Noah.  But at some point, life goes on. For all of us.” Abigail massages her temple. “Why is this conversation about me? We should make plans for saving the library.”

 

“Yeah, about that— What do you think of a meeting here on Tuesday 7 am? You, me, and Molly. Maybe your friend, Elizabeth, if she’d lend a helping hand, too.”

 

“I think it’s a brilliant idea.”

 

“Well then, that’s settled. Now I’m going to pay for my coffee and I won’t trouble you anymore today.”

 

“You’re no trouble and I wish you’d eat something before you go to work. Breakfast is on the house—and your coffee, too.”

 

“Abigail, I can’t let you—”

 

“I insist. So unless you give a very good reason why you don’t want to stay, I want you to stay and let me give you an omelette.”

 

“Thank you,” Henry yields and she gives him a smile before seeing about that omelette.

 

Abigail’s smile is radiating warmth. She truly believes Noah’ld have wanted her to be happy and she hopes that when he looks down at her, he feels pride how well she managed to stay afloat, never giving up, getting along on her own. She’s a grown-up woman who is fully capable of running a successful business and whom her friends can lean on—even though sometimes it’s really hard. After five years there are moments when it’s still hard to keep her head over the waves and not to sink. She misses her boys greatly; when it’s dark, when it’s cold, those are the hardest times. Noah and Peter will be forever in her heart but sometimes Abigail wishes they would be with her in her life.

 

Henry’s idea is turned into a week-long detective game. Abigail invites Elizabeth for Tuesday morning and she arrives together with Jack; Clara shows up and Becky sits down with them to brainstorm; Molly brings two of her friends, Dottie and Florence, to help; Henry doesn’t bring anybody but charts and plans how to fund the event. Together they pass their aim with flying colours. Molly and Elizabeth make flyers they can scatter to everyone they meet, Dottie and Florence decorate the library, and Abigail prepares some scones and sandwiches so they won’t run low on energy.

 

The whole event is timed for Spring break and their hopes aren’t cheated—lots of kids arrive, from smaller ones to teenagers even. First Jack gives a short lecture about detective work as a police officer, then the children get small tasks like finding messages hidden in certain books. Elizabeth has spent the previous week with reading, writing riddles, reading, asking Jack to draw her a treasure map, reading some more, making notes, tearing them up, writing new questions and riddles, then handing the outcome of her work to Henry, so he could hide them around the library. Those who aren’t so lucky on the first day, can try to make it up on the next day when Dottie talks about dresses (the girls go oh and aww) and uniforms (the sceptical boys cheer up at this point), then the detective work can start again. Most famous shoe? Cinderella’s! Yay! The library is full of excited children peeking into books, smelling them, touching them—and borrowing them.

 

At the day’s end Molly and Dottie are trying to make some order in the reading-room so next day Elizabeth can tell the kids everything about comets, while Henry’s sorting books on his desk. After lining the chairs up, Abigail goes over to Henry to see if she can help him.

 

“Thank you, but it’s no big deal. I’m just trying to sort them somehow, so it’ll be easier to return them to their places on the selves.”

 

Abigail caresses the cover of a copy of _Treasure Island_ with a sad smile on her face.

 

“ _Treasure Island_ was Peter’s favourite novel as a kid. It was a present for his eleventh birthday. He read it so many times that the poor book almost fell into pieces, and when _Treasure Planet_ came out in the cinemas, he still went to watch even though he was a bit overaged.” Her lips tremble and she quickly swipes away a tear that tries to slyly escape from her eye. “Sorry. I often speak about my boys but I rarely cry.”

 

“It’s alright,” Henry says, putting a comforting hand on Abigail’s left elbow. The gesture’s really _touching_ —at least it makes Abigail smile faintly.

 

“Why can’t we have ordinary conversations?” she asks. “Like what is your favourite type of cheese?”

 

“Cheddar, I guess, but really? My favourite type of cheese?”

 

“It’d have been morbid to ask your blood-type,” Abigail jokes. “Maybe I should go home. Tomorrow is going to be a long day. Again.”

 

“Do you want me to accompany you? I can easily finish this in the morning,” Henry offers, pointing at the books waiting to be put back on the shelves.

 

“Thank you for your kindness but I’ll manage.” Abigail knows he’s just being polite but she’s touched by the offer, truly. Or she thinks he might be just polite—however, he isn’t the man of superfluous civilities—but anyway, she can’t accept it. “I don’t want to take up your time.”

 

“It would mean no trouble.”

 

“I’ll be fine, but thank you.”

 

On her way home Abigail wonders if she should have accepted Henry’s company. She likes to spend time with him. He can be rude, yes, and he’s sullen most of the time, but they are getting on better and better with every passing day. She believes that hidden under his façade of the grim hermit he has a genuinely good heart. Maybe in five years time she will get to hear his story—because there must be a story behind all this loneliness and isolation. Abigail wishes he’d trust her enough to tell it to her but she knows that whys might not be so important. Sometimes it’s enough to step out of your shell, and Abigail’s aim is to get Henry open up and give up his brick-wall of pretence, so he could be the man he truly is. For better, for worse.

 

By Friday they are wrung out but the library has a great amount of new readers, young and old both. They know they can’t stop here now, that Henry and Molly has a lot more work to do, nevertheless the success of the little detective game calls for celebration, but they deserve to celebrate The little group of real and honorary librarians (Molly, Henry, Abigail, Elizabeth, Jack, Dottie, Florence, Becky, and Clara) dine together on Friday night at the café. It’s an awfully jolly evening; they are so tired they laugh at everything. Even Henry does so, although most of the time he sits quietly next to the equally silent and pensive Clara. It’s not an uncomfortable silence. Abigail suspects the reason behind Clara’s quietness—she thinks it must be linked to the fact that she’s recently started to see a guy called Jesse. Abigail hopes one day she’ll meet this young man and he’ll be worthy of Clara’s fragile heart, but Clara has a long way to go until she can accept this new-found happiness. Well, Abigail’s rooting for them.

 

Henry’s silence doesn’t alarm her. After all, he had to interact with a lot of children and adults, he was expected to be nice, and performed his role beautifully. He’s still acting polite towards everyone—he has seemingly grown accustomed to them. For example, he’s paying genuine attention when Dottie talks about how well her business is doing and that she’s going to need employ a new shop assistant soon, or when Elizabeth says that they’re getting new neighbours as a certain Mr. and Mrs. Coulter are meant to move into the house next to theirs.

 

When they’re finished and have said their goodbyes, Henry stays behind and helps Abigail to clear the table.

 

“You don’t have to do this.”

 

“I thought maybe I could walk you home and I’d hate to just sit and watch you clean up.” He gestures towards the windows: “It’s late and it’s dark outside.”

 

“Yes, it’d be nice, thank you.”

 

Abigail stacks the dinner set into the dishwasher, while Henry does the sweeping. In no time they are walking towards Abigail’s home.

 

“I don’t think I’ve thanked you for your help.” Henry’s the first to break their silence.

 

“You worked hard on this project, Henry, and I was happy to help. No need to make a big deal about it.”

 

“Oh, it’s a big deal, Abigail.”

 

This makes Abigail’s heart swell with pride and warmth. Suddenly she feels light as a feather and wants to laugh, free and joyful, because Henry let the door of friendship open, just a crack, but it’s enough to put her foot into that crack and never let the door close again. She likes this grumpy man and it seems finally he’s grown to like her, too.

 

“But there’s an important question we need to discuss.”

 

“Which is?”

 

“What’s your favourite type of cheese?” Henry doesn’t even try to keep his face serious.

 

Abigail laughs but she tries to answer the question seriously: “Gouda or red cheddar, I suppose.”

 

“Nice choice.”

 

“Alright, it’s my turn.” Led by a sudden impulse, Abigail hooks her arm in his. If Henry’s surprised, he masks it well. “Favourite book?”

 

“Do you know it’s not fair from such a fair lady to ask this question from a librarian?”

 

“Come on, Henry, give me a title,” she urges him.

 

“Fine, my recent— I repeat, _recent_ favourite is _Measuring the World_ by Daniel Kehlmann.”

 

“I haven’t read that.”

 

“Well, I know an excellent library where you can find it if you are interested… But first: your favourite book?”

 

“ _Love in the Time of Cholera_ , I think. I re-read it from time to time, so—” The air is soft but a bit chilly, and Abigail shivers, so she instinctively moves closer to Henry. “I wish I could explore Colombia and all the South American countries. And Africa! Especially Egypt. Oh, and don’t forget Spain! Can you imagine the warmth there? I bet the sun shines the brightest in Spain. Even the colours are different, so it’s no surprise that many of the greatest painters were from Spain. Pablo Picasso, for example. I want to go there and bask in the golden sun.”

 

Henry croaks: “Why, isn’t it a beautiful picture?”

 

“Oh, it’d be beautiful indeed. Too sad I’ll never go anywhere.” As if they are in a movie, on this cue they arrive to Abigail’s house.

 

“Why not?”

 

“I’m just not brave enough.”

 

“You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met,” Henry says in a dead-serious tone, making Abigail smile gently.

 

“I guess it takes a lot of courage to get up every day and live.”

 

“It takes all the courage.”

 

And that’s where Henry’s stories may lie—but this time Abigail won’t invite him inside for a cup of tea. She wants to preserve this evening as it is: calm, soft and beautiful. The time will come when they sit down and talk—later. Right now they are facing each other, holding their peace.

 

“Thank you for keeping me company,” Abigail breaks the silence. “Have a good night.” And she plants a soft kiss on his cheek.

 

“You too.”

  
  


 

 

 

April goes crazy. The morning is bright and warm so Abigail puts on a light cardigan—only to regret her decision by noon when a cold wind arrives, rushing down the streets, getting into every small corner, tearing at the trees. Abigail shivers at the pure thought of going home in such weather.

 

She isn’t surprised by Henry entering the café but his offer astonishes her:

 

“I’ve just stopped to lend my jacket to you. I thought it might come in handy,” and with this he presents the jacket to her.

 

Abigail is at loss for words. “Why, Henry— It’s very nice, but— How did you…?”

 

“Just a guess. It was a sunny morning and I asked myself what if you forgot to bring a sweater or a coat—”

 

“Surely I can’t take it. You’ll catch a cold.”

 

“I won’t, because, unlike you, I have a warm sweater,” he points out.

 

“Weren’t you very, very warm in the morning?” she asks with a raised eyebrow.

 

“I stuffed my sweater into my bag because some people don’t forget to listen to the radio’s weather forecast, you know.” He smiles a half-smile. “Seriously, take it. I know you hate being cold.”

 

Henry offers his jacket again and this time Abigail takes it, absent-mindedly caressing its lapel.

 

“Thank you, Henry.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

“I’ll return it tomorrow.”

 

“No rush. But I, er, I need to go now. I have got things to do,” Henry says a bit lamely,  staggering towards the door. “See you… er… Bye.” And he has already slipped out.

 

Abigail knows she won’t feel cold today as she goes home, quite the opposite: she feels very warm inside.

  
  


 

 

 

Clara worries Abigail. Around lunchtime she called her, asking if she was free in the evening, hastily reassuring her she was fine, fine, fine, before hanging up. This phone-call sounded like the opposite of being fine. Now they are at Abigail’s house; Clara is sitting at the kitchen table while Abigail is preparing tea. Clara doesn’t look fine either. She’s pale and restless, constantly fidgeting on her seat.

 

“Do you want some brandy along your tea?’” Abigail asks because whatever Clara’s about to say, it might call for something stronger than tea.

 

“No, thank you, tea will be fine.”

 

“So, what’s troubling you?”

 

“Nothing, really. It’s just— In fact, I should be relieved.”

 

“Relieved?”

 

Clara takes a deep breath, turns her empty mug upside down, then turns it back, and looks at Abigail. “I handed in my notice today. In thirty days I’ll be out of work.”

 

“Am I sad or am I happy about this?”

 

“I think you’re not surprised.” For the first time that evening Clara smiles. Having it off her chest she seems more relaxed now. “I don’t know yet what I am going to do next. I have thirty days to figure it out. Maybe I made a mistake, but I just couldn’t bear it anymore.”

 

Abigail pours hot water into their mugs. “Clara, this job has been eating you up for a long time now. It’s time to move on. Quitting an awful job doesn’t make you an awful person. Actually, it takes a lot of courage to have a go at something new.”

 

She puts a spoonful of sugar into Clara’s tea and stirs it. Every day she does other people’s teas and coffees, and she knows by heart the preferences of her regular customers. However, this is different, because preparing comfort tea for Clara is almost like preparing Noah’s morning coffee or Peter’s goodnight cocoa. Noah couldn’t open his eyes without his first cup of coffee, and little Peter used to ask for a mug of warm cocoa to accompany the bedtime story. Now Abigail’s going to tell Clara a story.

 

“When I opened the café, I had many doubts. I wondered if this town really needed another café. I used to ask myself: what if I fail as a business woman? Also, I knew I was a good cook—but was I good enough? Was it the path I’d been meant to take? Or was it just a pitiful attempt to escape my grim-looking, lonely present? Except that I wasn’t lonely, because I had you and Elizabeth and all my dear friends who supported me. I was afraid of the change but I did it anyway. And I haven’t regretted it. The place needed to be fixed up and I did it myself with my friends’ help. I remember Jack painting the walls and Elizabeth hemming the curtains, even if her sewing skills were less than perfect back then. And you, helping out in your free time, while you had your own problems and things to do… That meant everything to me.” Abigail inches her chair closer to Clara and puts an arm around the her shoulders. Much to her glee Clara relaxes into this half-hug. “I want you to know that I’ll be there for you, no matter what you do.”

 

“Thank you, Abigail.”

 

Abigail strokes Clara’s shoulder. “And now, tell me you’re going to stay for dinner.”

 

“Only if you let me help you with the cooking.”

 

They make spaghetti and Abigail tries to ask a few careful questions about Jesse:

 

“So, what does Jesse think about you quitting?”

 

“Well, I haven’t told him yet, but I mentioned my plan to quit several times, and he always assured me about his support. I think he hopes that we could spend more time together if I had a better schedule. That would be nice.”

 

“He sounds like a nice guy.”

 

“You bet he is.” Clara’s smile is warm and dreamy.

 

They work in silence for a while, until Clara snaps out of her daydreaming and with an almost mischievous twinkle in her eyes turns to Abigail:

 

“And what about you?”

 

“What about me?” Abigail asks back as the very soul of innocence.

 

“Are you seeing someone?” When Abigail shakes her head, Clara looks genuinely surprised. “So you and Henry aren’t…?”

 

“What? No.” Abigail feels her cheeks turn a light pink. She’s never thought about Henry in that way. Well, not before. Why would Clara think that? Except, on a second thought, it has never occurred to her, but maybe she just hasn’t dared to think of it.

 

So she tries the thought now. It’s definitely not unpleasant.

 

“However, I think I wouldn’t turn him down if he asked me for lunch,” Abigail says in the end. This is the most she dares to say, but it would be a lie to deny her _interest_ in Henry. She can’t lie, not to Clara—and not to herself.

 

For the first time in many years Abigail feels that she’s missing romance with a heart-rending longing. Noah was the love of her youth and she’ll always cherish his memory, but she has been alone for such a long time. For all the gratitude she feels towards her amazing friends, at the end of the day all of them goes home and Abigail is by herself again. She eats a lonely dinner, then sleeps in her bed alone. There is nobody waiting for her and nobody to be waited. When she sits down on the sofa to watch a movie, she can’t curl up to anyone. There is nobody to talk to and nobody to share a comfortable silence.

 

It’s not that she wants to grow old with Henry. She isn’t even sure if they could work as a couple. But if Henry asked her out for a date, a real date—well, she would definitely give it a try. He might look surly most of the time but she truly believes him to be a good-hearted man, he can’t fool her.

 

“Why don’t you ask him out?” Clara’s voice wakes Abigail from her musings. “We live in the twenty-first century, it wouldn’t shock anyone if you did that.”

 

“I might consider it. One day.” Abigail brushes aside the question because she has enough to gnaw at later when she goes to bed. “But let’s talk about something else: do you want to watch a movie after dinner?”

 

“Sure I do.”

 

Dining with Clara is special, it’s not something Abigail does every day. And as much as she longs for ordinary days to share with someone, she values these special nights when she and Clara eat spaghetti and watch _Wilby Wonderful_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Abigail chooses a warm, sunny Wednesday morning to return Henry’s jacket. She walks, even though her bike is parked outside the café, as they had a busy morning at the café and she enjoys these few undisturbed minutes of peace. Her thoughts soon wander to the owner of the jacket, or precisely, to her feelings for him.

 

She cares about Henry. But of course, she cares about Clara, Elizabeth, Jack, her customers… Between her and other people there are different threads of emotional attachment: different of nature and different in their depths. If she examines carefully the thread that links her to Henry, on her part she detects a hint of concern, a touch of fondness, and a clear attraction. On his part—well, she can’t really tell. She’s never thought about _him_ thinking of _her_ in any way.

 

Abigail decides to pay more attention to Henry’s reactions and gestures towards her. She isn’t a naive schoolgirl, waiting to be noticed by her crush, definitely not. By careful observation she will get to know where she stands with Henry. If she can feel solid ground under her feet, she might as well do something about it—as Clara said it was a fine era for women to take the lead. But if Henry isn’t interested in her romantically, of course she will retreat behind the walls of friendship as soon as possible. She can make mature decisions about her love-life.

 

“I, er, I came to return your jacket…?” And not to forget she can put mature sentences together. “Thank you. I hid some scones in your pocket, that’s why it’s bulging.”

 

“Thank you,” Henry nods a bit absentmindedly, his fingers constantly fiddling with a letter.

 

“What’s that?” frowning, Abigail points at the letter.

 

“I suppose it’s the town council’s decision about the fate of the library.”

 

“You suppose?”

 

“I haven’t opened it yet,” he shrugs. “But judging by the look on your face, I think this will change soon enough.” He steps out from behind the circulation desk. “Mrs. McCormick?” he calls back to the old lady reading in an armchair. “I’m stepping out for a minute. If you need anything, I’ll be just outside the door.”

 

“Thank you, I’ll be fine,” Mrs McCormick waves back. “The hens should arrive soon.”

 

“Isn’t she…?” Abigail asks as soon as they’re outside the door.

 

“Yes, she is. Dr. Shepherd practically dragged her in, she was quite reluctant to come. Now? She organised a literary society of ladies like herself; they meet here every Thursday afternoon,” Henry explains and Abigail almost claps in excitement.

 

“Henry, that’s wonderful!”

 

“If you say so…”

 

He’s idly playing with the letter, still unopened. Abigail thinks he might need a little nudge of courage, so she asks him:

 

“Did you know that a long time ago Hopefound was a small mining town? It was even called Coal Valley. I can imagine it: unvarying row-houses to live in, a church to pray, a saloon to eat, and maybe a mercantile— And the mine, of course. It must have taken all the courage and faith of the people who came here to turn it into such a great town.”

 

Henry raises his eyebrows but a faint ghost of a smile is playing around the corners of his mouth.

 

“So, you could either open that letter and see what it says or listen to me tell another story.”

 

“All right, you win,” he bows and opens the letter.

 

Abigail tries to wait patiently—and tries to peek into the letter, just a bit. Henry holds it too high, she needs to stand on tiptoes, but she loses her balance and instinctively grabs the his shoulder to steady herself.

 

“Uh-oh, sorry.”

 

“Fine,” Henry huffs. “I mean, we’re fine. Apparently the town still needs this library. They even encourage us to organise more events that would help building a community.”

 

Abigail can’t resist and hugs Henry. They did it! Been there, done that, got the letter. Together they saved the library.

 

“I’m so glad,” she whispers into his shoulder, feeling a great wave of relief wash over her.

 

Also, she can’t fail to notice how nice his neck smells and how comfortable (and warm) he feels against her. They are caressed by the smiling sun, the air is still and there is peace all around. Abigail could get used to this.

 

Or maybe she should release Henry first, before traumatizing him forever. Is it an illusion or is he really reluctant to let her out of the embrace?

 

“I’m glad, too,” he says quietly when they’re separated.

 

“It calls for a celebration.” The sentence has barely rolled of her tongue when an idea strikes Abigail. “What are your plans for Friday evening?”

 

“Nothing, really.”

 

“Good. I’ll pick you up at quarter past seven.”

 

Henry cocks an eyebrow. “I’m sure I can find my way to your café by now.”

 

“Oh, but we won’t go to the café.” Abigail gives him an innocent smile. “I hope you like vodka.”

 

“Yeah, vodka is good.”

 

“Alright, then meet you right here on Friday.”

 

Abigail takes a step back, ready to leave, but she almost misses the stairs behind her. Surely, this is not her most graceful day. She stumbles but doesn’t fall because Henry catches by her elbows. He steadies her, carefully keeping the distance between them. Still, it’s a pretty sight for Mrs. McCormick’s incoming friends—something to whisper about.

 

“Don’t forget to bring your jacket,” Abigail adds. She can still feel the phantom touch of Henry’s fingers clutching her arms. Why did she decide to put on a sweater? (Apart from not wanting to catch a cold.)

 

“Why?”

 

“It smells nice.” Is she really trying to flirt with him? It certainly makes Henry blink in surprise. Surprise looks quite becoming on him—actually, any emotion differing from his facade of indifference looks very good on him. But Abigail should be going, before she does something careless. “So you won’t catch a cold, what do you think?”

 

“Okay.”

 

It’s not a date. However, it’ll be something more intimate than the dinner at the café was, because this time it’ll be just the two of them. Abigail needs to plan it thoroughly; right now she has just a bud of an idea that should blossom by tomorrow night. Well, she’s famous for being good at planning and organising.

  
  


 

 

 

Abigail arrives on time but Henry’s already waiting for her. He doesn’t ask her where she’s taking him, just silently takes her bag containing the vodka and some sandwiches, and lets her lead the way.

 

They don’t go far; Abigail picked out the old, crumbling house right on the corner for their celebratory picnic. She spotted it on the very first day she first came to Redemption Street. It’s in a bad shape but doesn’t look dangerous, so Abigail strides in with her head high in the air. Henry follows lead without any protest, regarding Abigail incredulously as she lays out a checked plaid—she had to hang it out in the garden to air it a bit; it’s been a long time since she took it out of the bottom of the wardrobe.

 

“Really? Aren’t wild teens supposed to come here and smoke pot?” Henry gestures around.

 

“We’re the wild teens. Although I couldn’t get pot, so we will have to stick to vodka.” She unscrews the bottle, offering it to the man. “Mind if we share? I’m against plastic cups.”

 

They’re sharing the bottle. What is this if it isn’t the cup of kindness? Sharing a cup is a sign of trust; maybe sharing vodka means trusting each other enough to get drunk together. Not that Abigail has plans on getting drunk but it certainly won’t be an alcohol-free evening.

 

Her lips are touching the same bottle as his and she shudders at the intimacy of the situation. If Henry has any complaints about it, he doesn’t express hem. They’re sitting there in silence for a while, taking little sips from the vodka and nibbling on the sandwiches. Henry isn’t a talkative man, and although Abigail has questions buzzing in her mind, she takes her time to ask them. Her mind is wrapped up around the man sitting next to her on an old, checked plaid, while her eyes are taking in the house, bit by bit. The hinges are barely holding up the shutters that might have been green a long time ago but the colour has already rotted away from them. The paint has mostly peeled off the walls, revealing the bricks, the bones of the house. The air smells of decay and oblivion, and a heavy dust sits on everything. A forgotten chair stands in the corner of the once-used-to-be-a-room. Abigail wonders if this was the kitchen or the living-room. As she moves into a more comfortable position, the floor creaks underneath her. The house is slowly rotting into nothing but from the decay green sprouts of new life come out, breaking through the floor, the walls, and the windows.

 

Finally Abigail breaks the silence: “Have you ever heard about kintsugi?”

 

“I don’t recall.”

 

“It’s the Chinese technique of repairing broken things with gold. You see, it treats the breakage and the repair as part of the object. Something that isn’t meant to be disguised.”

 

“I think it’s Japanese.”

 

“So you’ve heard about it!” Abigail beams at him but Henry doesn’t look thrilled. He rather seems to be in a pensive state of mind. “Don’t you think that’s a beautiful idea?”

 

“I don’t know, Abigail. It’s surely a romantic idea, but sometimes things just stay broken.”

 

Henry looks at the floor, the windows, the place where a door should be connecting one room to another—he looks everywhere except at Abigail. She braces herself for whatever is coming, because she knows, she feels that he’s about to say something that is painful for him.

 

“I was married once, back then when I used to work at the Central Library. A model citizen, me.” Henry rubs his chin as if trying to wipe away the itch to speak. “Then I fell in love with a woman but instead of telling my wife, I went on with the affair until one day I asked myself: why not change my life? I asked No— my lover about it, and she was so fed up with the lies she agreed with me. So l handed in my notice, wrote a note for my wife, packed up my things, started the car… The accident made it into the local newspaper. No front page, though. My lover passed the incident without a scratch and left for her hometown—and for good. After they released me from the hospital, I had nowhere to go so I stayed. My wife divorced me, and I moved into a different district of Hopefound, got a new job at a menial little library. I had nothing to remind me of what happened apart from a faint limp. You’ve surely noticed that but you’re too polite to poke and pry about such things.”

 

He takes a swig of the bottle.

 

“I’m a liar and a coward, Abigail. My story isn’t a romantic but pathetic and disgraceful.”

 

Abigail can’t find the words. What could she say to him? Would it be wise to advise him to forgive himself? It’s time to get rid of all the bitterness and anger, because under those lies kindness. Compassion. Gentleness.

 

When Abigail realises she can’t encourage Henry with words, she reaches out to him and takes his hand. His fingers hesitantly curl around hers. Abigail, suddenly groggy from the night and the vodka, lies back on the plaid, never letting go of his hand. Right above her part of the roof is missing, so she can see the stars. They seem to be descending on her, closer and closer, shining and fading and shining like small buttons on the night sky—a big, velvety blanket…

 

When Abigail wakes up, the first thing she notices is the unfamiliar darkness around her. As she slowly comes to her senses, takes in her surroundings and remembers. She’s still lying on the plaid spread on the old, abandoned house’s floor, but now Henry’s jacket is covering her as a blanket. Henry’s lying next to her, asleep, but holding her hand even in his sleep. She can’t help but smile even if tomorrow her head and her back will compete to end her, once and forever. Maybe they’re too old to play wild teens but she wouldn’t have done this night differently, not for the world.

 

She wants to stay here forever.

 

The house is old, neglected and falling apart. Greens are slowly taking over the place that nobody cares about, the building is holding memories of people who had long moved on. How familiar. Abigail’s keeping memories of people gone, cradling them close to her heart, but at the same time she lets all kind of new feelings strike root inside her and overgrow her. It’s a tangled web of different impressions, small joys, and everyday frustrations. Sometimes the world might feel cold and empty, but if she looks into the right direction, she can see the stars and the sun smiling upon her.

 

She never wants to leave but she has to if she doesn’t want Henry hate her forever. They’re not _that_ old but spending a whole night on a creaking wooden floor can be a real back-killer. So Abigail sits up with faint resignation, letting her hand slip from Henry’s hold.

 

“Henry,” she whispers, gently shaking his shoulder. “Henry, wake up.”

 

He awakens slowly, blinking and stretching, cracking the bones in his back and in his neck.

 

“We should go home.” Abigail doesn’t know why she’s whispering. Maybe a too loud sound would pop the bubble of their new-found closeness.

 

They pack in silence, their movements a bit stiff. Before they leave the house, Henry drapes his jacket over Abigail’s shoulder, and she almost giggles. Back in those times when the town was called Coal Valley, her reputation would have been destroyed forever—first, by falling asleep next to a man who was not his fiancée, then by walking with him in the middle of the night. Wearing his coat. How scandalous.

 

They keep silent on the way to Abigail’s home. When they reach her house, the sun is already emerging on the horizon. They must have slept longer than they thought.

 

“Good morning, I guess,” Abigail says, smiling but she feels an awful longing for going back. She wonders if they’ll ever be as close as they were in the house. Or closer. She’d like that. “If you need a brutal coffee—”

 

“No, thank you, I’ll manage.”

 

He seems to be still adamant about not crossing her threshold.

 

“Fine. If you change your mind, yo can find me in the café.”

 

“You are going to work?” he asks in disbelief.

 

“My café is open from Monday to Saturday,” she smiles.

 

“But aren’t you tired?”

 

“I’ll manage.” In her opinion, every second of the night was worth an uncomfortable day spent with an aching back and sleepy eyes.

 

For a long moment—it seems endless, except that everything must end, that’s how things work—Henry looks at her like he’s about to say something. Or do something.

 

But the moment is gone; he shifts, looks away, and Abigail slowly slides his jacket off her shoulders. “Here. Before I forget it. Thank you.”

 

“It was only natural.”

  
  


 

 

 

On Sunday, Abigail spends most of her day relaxing in the sunny garden, sometimes dozing over a book, sometimes making lists in her head of the things she knows about Henry and the things she likes about him. She even tries to list the things she doesn’t know about him but she always loses count.

 

On Monday, she calculates that the café brings in enough money to hire another employee. She toys with the idea of offering the job to Clara but fears she would feel, well, kind of obligated to take it, and Abigail doesn’t want to tie her down. Of course, if Clara can’t find a new job, Abigail will be there—but she believes that Clara’s meant to find her own path.

 

On Tuesday, five minutes before closing time, an excited Clara walks in and pours the news on Abigail: she’s taking a sewing course and Dottie has offered to employ her as shop assistant, so her work will complement her studies just wonderfully. Overwhelmed by the joy, Clara invites Abigail to have dinner with her and Jesse on Friday. Abigail admires how Clara’s face is beaming with happiness and confidence.

 

On Wednesday, Abigail decides that she’s had too many days without Henry, so she pays him a visit in the library. Tough luck, she’s in for a disappointment as she finds Molly behind the desk. Abigail entrusts the pack of scones to Molly and the librarian promises with a mischievous smile that Henry will get (most of) them. When she gets back to the café, a bunch of tulips are waiting for her. Mr. Gowen was quite disappointed when he couldn’t find her, Becky informs her with a knowing smile.

 

On Thursday, Abigail realises with some surprise how much she was aching to see Henry. When he steps into the café, her heart almost jumps out of her chest with violent delight, and for a moment she can’t do anything but smile at him standing at the door, smiling back at her. Lucky thing it’s two in the afternoon and nobody is around (even Becky has disappeared miraculously in the kitchen) because their little smiling pantomime would give Abigail’s customers a nice topic to talk about. They could team up with Mrs. McCormick’s literary society in gossiping.

 

After Henry manages to leave the threshold, finally, and Abigail takes his order, they try to chat. Casually.

 

“So, uh, what were you up to this week?” Very casual, Abigail, very casual.

 

“This and that, I guess.”

 

“Thank you for the tulips. They’re beautiful,” she gestures towards the counter where the flowers are standing proudly in a vase.

 

“Glad you liked them.”

 

“And do you still like vodka?” Abigail probes. “We have half a bottle to finish.”

 

How symbolic. They drank half of the bottle and Henry poured out his bad memories but the other half is still waiting for them. Maybe next time they should pour in some new and good memories—although alcohol might not work that way.

 

“Well, I was wondering if I could share something with you from my wild teenage years—” Henry tries to voice his request casually “—if you are amenable tomorrow night. Or Saturday night, if that suits you better.”

 

“Saturday night would be lovely.”

 

Abigail feels almost giddy with joy; it really takes all the effort not to giggle like a schoolgirl and turn beet red. But of course, why couldn’t she feel the way she does? Who said love was for the young folk? She ain’t that old anyway.

 

But alas, who said anything about love?

 

Attraction. A soft spot in her heart. A touch of concern. Those are her feelings towards Henry, not love in full bloom.

 

“Where should I meet you?”

 

“Do you know where Snow Ridge Park is?”

 

“I think so.”

 

“Meet me there at ten pm.”

 

“All right. That sounds really— really mysterious.”

 

Abigail’s fairly certain Henry is not a serial killer.

  
  


 

 

 

Snow Ridge Park hides in the eastern part of the town, and Abigail chooses to ride her bike. She takes the wrong turn at one point and needs to backtrace her way. When she finally arrives, just a little bit late, she finds Henry waiting for her, pacing up and down on the pavement. Abigail wonders if he was too nervous to sit down on a bench. Did he think she wouldn’t come?

 

“Sorry, I’m late.” She ties down her bicycle to a parking rack. “And I forgot the vodka.”

 

“It’s okay.”

 

“But I’ve brought biscuits!”

 

“Well then, shall we?”

 

Henry offers his arm and Abigail takes it, together they walk into the park. Abigail feels nervous, excited, happy, all at the same time. Her eyes keep darting left and right—they aren’t alone; groups of teenagers are here and there, sitting on the benches, under trees and bushes, smoking and drinking. Sometimes she can only hear them, faint giggling or the sounds of kissing. Shocking!

 

“I used to come here a lot as a kid,” Henry explains. “I learnt to ride the bicycle here with my friends’ help. This is the place where we played football and where we would take the girls for dates. Or sometimes we would just sit and drink cheap beer, maybe vodka, bantering, wisecracking, talking— Solving the big mysteries of the universe, that kind of stuff.”

 

“It sounds wild in a very sensible way.” Abigail smiles up at Henry even though he isn’t looking, he’s too busy being open and vulnerable.

 

“I shouldn’t have told you to come here alone this time of the night.”

 

“You can always make it up to me by escorting me home later.” With her free hand she pokes him gently in the shoulder. “Much later.”

 

“I’m almost waiting for these kids around here to ask us why aren’t we at home yet,” he answers with a half-smile, and now his posture looks more relaxed.

 

“Yeah, and we could ask them the same,” Abigail shrugs, before stopping and pointing at something that has just caught her eyes. “Is that a swimming pool? Right there, that blue thing, just across the road.”

 

“Yes, it’s the old pool.” They direct their steps towards it to get a closer look.

 

“Am I going to hear any stories about you being on the water polo team?”

 

“I wasn’t,” Henry smiles, a full smile now. “I can swim, though.”

 

“Well then, I have an idea how to shock some more of nowadays’ wild teens.” Abigail crosses the road with determined steps, dragging Henry after her. She inspects the fence of the pool. “Ah-ha, I can see the pool. I hope you don’t feel that I’m ditching our walk in the park, because I don’t— But I’ve always wanted to try this.” And with that she hitches herself up on top of the fence, then in a blink of an eye she’s in pool ground. “Have you ever tried, you know, crashing the gates?”

 

“I spent my youth hanging around in a park next to this pool. What do you think?”

 

His movements aren’t nearly as athletic as Abigail’s, but he crosses the fence, too. However, they can’t enjoy their small victory for long as a fan of yellow light appears around the corner of the flat building of the inside pools.

 

“The night watch,” Henry warns Abigail in a low tone, only ruffling the woman’s excitement.

 

“Then off with you to a bush!”

 

“To a bush?!” he gapes but before he could protest, he’s already pushed into a shrub. His question makes Abigail think of an old favourite of her, _Singing in the Rain_ — _“Well, I can’t make love to a bush!”_ She tries to crouch next to Henry but there isn’t enough space and her white blouse would make too high-contrast in the dark, so she takes an alternate solution and climbs a tree.

 

“Abigail! What are you doing?” Henry hisses but she can’t answer him, she needs every willpower to suppress her giggling. What a scheme! Henry’s sitting in the shrub, grumpy as ever, while she’s crouching on a tree like a cat that can’t find their way down. The night watch passes them without noticing but Abigail can imagine how big his surprise would be if he found them.

 

“All clear,” she signals Henry, sliding off the tree, getting one or two bruises, but it was worth it. “How much time do you think we have?”

 

“Until he returns? An hour. Maybe a half if he is overenthusiastic.”

 

“I doubt that.”

 

Henry has a leaf in his hair and looks like he is not amused. Abigail frees him from the leaf—not that it didn’t look good on him.

 

“Anyway, we shouldn’t waste our time,” she says, already slipping off her shoes, emptying her pockets.

 

“Why? What are you— Oh, no, she is in.”

 

Henry is right: Abigail is already in the outdoor pool, smiling at him, the water casting strange lights on her face. He looks at her in astonishment—and with some resignation because now he has to go in, too. As Henry slowly dips into the lukewarm water (warmed by the sun, hasn’t cooled down yet), Abigail does a handstand. Just like that, easy and simple.

 

Soon the two of them are floating peacefully like leaves on water. They are watching the night sky above them and a sense of _déja vu_ touches Abigail. She turns into a vertical position, nudging Henry to follow suit, her eyes fixed on the sky.

 

“What?” he asks, shaken up from his meditative state.

 

“Don’t you feel awfully small? Like a dust speck on the face of the Earth, ready to be swept off any minute. There are times, sad times when it’s hard to believe. To believe that we have a path we’re meant to take; that we’re significant, that we are cared for. Is that wrong, I wonder.” Abigail’s look shifts to Henry, open and vulnerable. She feels small, truly, awfully small, like a grain of sand or dust floating in the ocean.

 

“It’s hard not to feel cold when there is snow lying around. I think the trick is to store the sunny days and remember them when needed. Of course, memories fade, because time is unmerciful, so it’s important to make new memories of the sun or you’ll just find yourself lost in coldness.” Henry reaches out, tentatively, taking Abigail’s left hand. “However, I don’t think it’s wrong to doubt. Sometimes we all doubt something. Mostly we doubt our value, until someone comes and shows us how significant we are. That makes our faith stronger. If we never struggle, if we never feel lost and lonely, we can’t taste true happiness. It takes work to believe and to be happy, so mistakes, failures, and doubts are inevitable.”

 

Abigail reaches out with her free hand, taking Henry’s, smiling softly. Sometimes sand settles out and becomes an island. There is still a huge amount of water around but the island welcomes it as its friend.

 

They’re floating together, hand in hand. It would take one pull from one of them to get closer and— But Henry’s eyes move from Abigail’s face, focusing on something in the distance, frowning.

 

“The night watch is coming this way, again. He must be bored—”

 

“—or new at the job.”

 

The magic is gone. They climb out of the pool, then through the fence, slipping but not falling, almost forgetting their things behind, but eventually escaping the danger of getting caught. They look at each other: two dripping, barefooted people with their shoes in their hands. Abigail’s wet hair shines in the light of the streetlamps like thick honey.

 

“We must look very— defeated,” Henry says.

 

“I don’t know. You look good.”

 

Henry looks away, flustered.

 

“We should go before you catch a cold.”

 

“I might have an solution for that. Can you ride a bicycle?”

 

“Yeah, sure.”

 

Abigail leads him to her bicycle. It’s slightly big for her since it used to belong to Peter who was a tall boy but Abigail has learnt to ride it safely and now a bike designed for men will come in handy.

 

“Here is the idea: I can sit either on the top tube or on the saddle, whatever you’d prefer because you’ll need to do the paddling. We go to your house first, then I cycle home.”

 

“Top tube, that’s safer, and we go to yours first, because no way I’m letting you go home alone so late.”

 

Abigail likes his fussy bossiness, so she gives in: “Alright, but then you go home on my bike.”

 

The top tube is the opposite of comfortable, but Abigail won’t complain as long as Henry’s arms are around her. The leading wind might be a bit chilly but the intimacy of the situation makes her feel warm enough. She wishes to ask Clara if Peter and she had ever rode the bicycle this way, and if they had, had they felt the same lightness? Because Abigail feels light as a feather, like she could fly home, to Spain, to the Sun, anywhere, if she wanted to.

 

How come her soul soars so high above yet she can feel every inch of her body so clearly?

 

The journey between Snow Ridge Park and Abigail’s house is way too short in Abigail’s opinion. Her only consolation is the hope that it might not be the last time she experienced these feelings. Only if the night watch hadn’t come… What could have happened then?

 

“Won’t you come in?” she asks driven by a sudden idea. “Just to warm up a bit. We could have a picnic in my living-room.”

 

“A living-room picnic?” Henry laughs. “You don’t really believe in old-fashioned dates, do you?”

 

Dates. The word makes Abigail’s heart flutter. She can feel her face go hot and red before turning chalk-white, her legs tremble, her knees weaken, her stomach clenches… She could run to America then back, she does want to run but she wants to stay at the same time. She wants to laugh, cry, smile, squeal, hide. She hasn’t been asked out since— well, since Noah, and they met and got together quite young. All right, maybe someone tried to ask her on a date since Noah died, but she turned him down, so that doesn’t count.

 

“Dates?” she croaks because she must ask, just to be sure.

 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—” Now Henry looks embarrassed. “What I meant— Well, I thought— But I guess then it wasn’t that obvious— You’re so kind and friendly with everyone!” he breaks out in exasperation over his failure at expressing himself.

 

“And you’re mighty close!” Abigail retorts.

 

She instinctively leans closer to Henry, looking into his eyes, open and unmasked. He looks back at her with a yearning expression. His eyes are deep: swirling hazel mirrors of longing, affection, shyness and hunger.

 

It’s now or never to ask him.

 

“Do you like me, Henry?”

 

He swallows. “I… care about you. Very much.”

 

He doesn’t move away from her but doesn’t move closer either. Abigail wonders if she should take the first (or the hundredth) step. Would that scare him away? Does she really want a man who is so easily scared?

 

She grows impatient. “Look, Henry, I can be awfully lonely sometimes and I believe the same goes for you, so what if you gave me, us a chance? Hm?”

 

He looks equally frustrated now. Lonely and frustrated the both of them—they’re standing on really solid foundations.

 

“For me it’s never been about loneliness,” Henry snaps. “I’m not just another soul to save. I don’t want to be saved, I want to be— Well, apparently it doesn’t matter what I want. I’m starting to think this whole thing wasn’t such a good idea.”

 

“Your opinion is noted for the record.”

 

Did he really just call her a thing? Or the thing between them… well, a thing. But it’s not the same. She thought they had something, and something is definitely not just _a_ thing.

 

“I should go,” Henry says, then adds, his tone softer and more resigned this time: “Get some sleep, Abigail, and have a good night.”

 

“Good night, Henry.” Her voice is clipped and full of hurt. She watches him disappear around the corner of the street as a sort of self-torture.

 

Abigail feels like she’s about to cry. Or shriek, she hasn’t decided yet. Is it really the end of everything they had? A few unexplained words and that’s all. Are they really this bad at communicating? Or are they just so hurt by they past experiences that they wind up at the first try and bolt like a scared animal?

 

Part of her wants to curl up on her bedroom’s floor, hug her pillow and cry herself into sleep while listening to some dramatic or/and melancholic, sad love song. Like a schoolgirl.

 

What she’s actually going to do: park her bicycle, take a shower, fall asleep. Or at least she will try to get some sleep, so tomorrow she can do some serious thinking.

 

Abigail Stanton isn’t a deer to run away from a problem. She’s going to figure out this one, because if both of them can act so impossibly, they must deserve each other.

 

Or at least they deserve a second chance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Doing everyday tasks helps Abigail to think in a focused way and the house is in need of a thorough cleaning, so on Sunday she gets up really early, rolls up her literal and metaphorical sleeves, and sets to work.

 

First, she piles clothes into the washing-machine. She can clean the bathroom while the machine is working—the low humming of it will help her think about what did Henry mean when he said she was kind with everyone...? It’s an easy one: because she is.  She has an open heart, an attentive ear, and a soft smile. (And a bunch of bad characteristics, of course, but she’ll think about those a bit later.) Henry has a lot of good qualities—he is a gentleman with a dry sense of humour, for example—which he tries to hide from the world and from himself. Now he thinks he has read too much into Abigail’s smiles and gestures, and believes her to be indifferent. On the other hand, Abigail’s never really taken into consideration that Henry might have deeper feelings for her, and now it seems both of them harbor some more serious sentiments for the other then they had thought. Uhh. All these thinking and never saying what they actually think. Feel. Want.

 

Abigail’s hanging up the clothes in the garden, when she hears familiar voices: the Montgomery children, Gabe and Emily are passing by, arguing heatedly.

 

“Take it back!” Gabe hisses at Emily.

 

“No, I won’t, I won’t, I won’t—” Emily chants “because she doesn’t care about you!”

 

“Watch yourself or I’ll—”

 

“Children!” Abigail calls over the fence in order to get their attention and cut off the argument.

 

“Good morning, Mrs. Stanton!”

 

‘‘What’s the matter?”

 

“He’s in love! Gabe’s in love! But she doesn’t care about him!” Emily starts again in a sing-song voice, making Gabe’s face quickly reddening.

 

“Doesn’t care or just doesn’t know?” Abigail asks before Gabe could snap at his sister. The question turns him from angry into sad.

 

“Doesn’t care,”’ he shrugs.

 

“Don’t worry, Gabe,” Abigail smiles at the boy. He’s only twelve but he’s suffering from unrequited love! He looks completely devastated. “You’re still very young, you’ve got a lot of time to change her opinion about you. And you may surprise yourself, but your first love is rarely your last, so either she falls in love with you or you fall out of love with her.”

 

“I know you think I’m foolish, but I know that she is the one. The only one.”

 

A categorical young man, he is. “Well then, I’m sure one day she will look upon you with a different eye.”

 

“Do you think so?” Gabe seems to cheer up a bit hearing that.

 

“Yes, I do.” Abigail’d like to caress his head but she fears he’d be offended. He isn’t a child anymore, being in love and everything. “And for you, Emily, if I were you, I wouldn’t mock Gabe, because one day you might as well find yourself in love with someone.”

 

“Me?” she grimaces with all the confidence of little girls. “I don’t think so.”

 

“Oh, but that’s the trick of love: it surprises you at the most unexpected times.”

 

She could tell them about that.

 

Abigail prepares a light dinner while thinking of Gabe’s words about knowing the One. She has doubts because people fall in love in many ways with many people. The first love of your life might not be the last but this doesn’t make those first feelings worthless or less sweet—or less painful when you break up for the first time. Abigail herself had a love before Noah, a first love, at high school. It was wonderful. It was sweet, it was bitter, it was everything back then. The boy was the One for her—until he wasn’t anymore.

 

There was only one for Romeo and Juliet—but they both died as teenagers, so that doesn’t really count. What if Friar Laurence arrived on time to snatch the dagger from Juliet’s hand? Probably her parents would have sent her to a nunnery or tried to find her a suitable husband. She might have learnt to love her second husband—there is no way to tell exactly the fictional emotions of a fictional character. That is definitely a dead end.

 

Abigail cleans the kitchen to redirect her wandering thoughts. Her Noah was an honest, trustworthy man who never feared to voice his thoughts and stand for what (or who) he believed in. And he believed in his wife. Partly that is the reason why Abigail could go on with her life. She spent twenty-five years with Noah, he knew her better than anyone in the world. They fell in love when they were young and they married as barely adults—they had a long way of learning ahead. Together they learnt to respect each other, to share the laughs not just the worries, and to share the problems not just the joys, of course. They had to realise that it was okay to disagree, until they don’t forget that talking and listening are equally important. Their marriage was a blessed union.

 

Abigail finishes the cleaning project with hoovering, and mopping the floor. There won’t be a day when she won’t miss her boys, but her heart is ready and open to let Henry in. Ehh, who is she trying to fool? Her floor or her vacuum cleaner? Henry’s been in her heart for a while now, and everything would have been easier only if she let him know that. Tonight Abigail has a clean house and clean head, tomorrow she’s going to see Henry and tell him how she feels. Even if she has to tell it in front of the whole library.

  
  


 

 

 

In the end she almost has an audience because Henry is reluctant to listen when Abigail visits him in the library. Well, she’s ready to spill her heart in front of Mrs. McCormick or anyone else.

 

“Hello, Henry,” she greets him. He nods—he doesn’t look neither pleased nor angry at seeing her. He looks sort of careful. Closed, retreated behind his walls of isolation. “I wish to talk to you.”

 

“Is it about library business? Because I’m quite busy right now.”

 

Oh, yes, she knows this face of him. Henry should know better, he could never frighten her by playing Mr. Sourpuss. “No, it’s personal, and I need you to listen to me. You can choose to hear me out right here, in front of everyone, of course.”

 

“Alright,” he rather grunts then says it.

 

Abigail wish they could go to the old, crumbling house at the corner to talk but they can’t go too far from the library, so she chooses a sunny spot in front of the steps leading up to the entrance. Henry looks at her impatiently, carefully staying at arm-length from her.

 

“I’m listening.”

 

Oh, you better be, Henry Gowen, you better be.

 

Abigail looks Henry in the eyes. “I might have hurt you unintentionally by not telling you the whole truth, so I’m going to say it now, plain and simple. I love you.”

 

She even loves how his eyes go wild hearing that.

 

“And before you could question my feelings, I must tell you that I love you for who you are, not because I feel lonely. Although I do feel lonely when I am not with you.” She can’t help a sad little smile appear on her face: she finally learnt to live without Noah but here comes Henry and it seems she can’t live without him. Or maybe she just doesn’t want to. “I love the man who frowns at people and from whom it’s hard to draw more than two words. I love the man who tries and fails to hide his good heart. I love the man who returns her umbrella to an annoying woman whom he barely knows. I love you, Henry, because of your good deeds and your mistakes. I love how you make me smile and how you can get on my nerves sometimes. You make me feel alive.” She’s forcing herself to look into Henry’s eyes, because she’s afraid that the emotions will overwhelm her before she could say everything she has to say. “I want to be with you for no other reason but because I love you.”

 

That’s it. She’s bared her soul. She’s accepted her own feelings. Now it’s Henry’s decision to accept or reject her. Now or never—or the time between.

 

“I don’t expect you to say anything now and I won’t press you into anything.” She wants to kiss him so badly but that would probably count as pressing. “In fact, if you don’t ever again want to say anything to me— If you don’t want me, I can learn to accept that. And if you want me, you know where you can find me. I’ll wait for your answer for as long as you need, and if you never turn up, I’ll know that your answer is no. So if that would be the case, then take care of yourself, Henry, and be very-very happy.”

 

Although she would die inside if he said “ _you too, Abigail”_ now.

 

But Henry doesn’t say anything, just stands there—vulnerable, shocked, defeated. Abigail takes it as a good sign: if he wanted to reject her, he could do that now in a few words. Maybe he just wants to arrange his thoughts first before saying anything. Well, anyhow, hope lives on, and Abigail is a patient woman.

  
  


 

 

 

Abigail is patient, love is patient, but a whole week passes without Henry appearing.

 

Her life goes on and each passing day brings something new. Applicants for working at the café, for example. Florence and Dottie appearing and inviting her to the cinema. Elizabeth coming in for a snack and a chat. Abigail suspects Elizabeth is with child—her face, her body, her eyes, and her smile can tell. But Abigail won’t ask, she will wait patiently until her friend tells the news; she might be mistaken, after all.

 

Sunday morning finds Abigail in her back garden with a book and the solid intention of having a leisure day. But the book is from the library and this fact alone makes her thoughts wander from the plot of the novel to Henry. If he doesn’t come to her, can she ever go to the library without her heart breaking? Maybe she should ask Elizabeth to return the books for her. Or should she act like a grown-up woman? But could she face him knowing that their playful banters are over?

 

Maybe growing old makes her have all these over-dramatic thoughts but Abigail just wants to go away and leave behind her worries. Not for long, she doesn’t want to escape, she just needs a little vacation. Half a day, maybe? Half a day without worries and troubling questions at somewhere warm and sunny. A different district of Hopefound would do if it was nice enough. Or maybe she could go for a swim in this weather! Legally, for a change. Oh, it was terrific when they were trespassing…

 

Her phone shakes her from her daydreaming. Unidentified number.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Good morning, Abigail.”

 

“Henry?” She could recognise his voice anytime. “I don’t recall giving you my number.”

 

“You filled out the library’s registration form, remember?”

 

Finally it hits her: he has called.

 

“I wanted to ask you if you’re free today.” His voice sounds calm.

 

Abigail’s stomach is in a tight knot, her hands are shaking, but she manages to keep her voice from shaking as she replies: “Free as a bird, yes, I am.”

 

“Good. I wondered if you’d like to— If I could take you somewhere.”

 

“Anywhere.” She is shaking with joy. And excitement.

 

“You should wear something casual and comfortable. I’ll explain everything when I pick you up at your home in about half an hour.”

 

“I’ll be ready.”

 

“See you soon.”

 

Abigail changes clothes in no time, prepares a few sandwiches (because snacks are important), then does something she hasn’t done for a while: sits on the top of the front gate, spying the street with sharp eyes.

 

The girl from the green house leaves home—she looks pretty and happy, her steps following a secret rhythm. She must be going on a date. The old lady with the grey cat called Tilly, is nowhere to be seen and the shutters of her house are closed. Abigail knows for a fact that she’s been away for the whole week, visiting her newborn grandchild in Hamilton. Mr. Abernathy’s washing his car on the street, humming a song, and chuckling at Emily Montgomery and her friends because the children are playing their favourite game: Mounties and Robbers. This game involves a lot of shouting and running up and down.

 

Now Henry appears and everything else vanishes from Abigail’s mind because he is pushing a tandem bicycle with a wide smile on his face.

 

When he reaches her house, Henry props the bicycle against the fence, then, kind of ignoring Abigail’s almost shy _“hi”_ , he lifts her from the front gate, picks her up and kisses her. Abigail wants to ask if that’s a wise move with his knee and everything, but then she is too busy with finally feeling his warm lips on hers. The kiss is sweet, hungry, breath-taking and never enough. A drop of water for someone with a raging thirst. A ray of sun after a long, dark winter. Also, it’s a bit clumsy, and there is a slight chance they will fall over, but hey, they are always ready for a good laugh.

 

Eventually, they break the kiss and Henry puts Abigail down.

 

“Sorry, I couldn’t resist,” he pants.

 

“For the future, don’t ever resist.”

 

“Also, sorry that I didn’t come sooner. It’s not that easy to buy a tandem bicycle as I thought it would be.”

 

Abigail giggles. This tandem bicycle is one of the most romantic gifts she has ever got.

 

“Maybe it won’t take us to Spain—” Henry goes on “—but it will take us to many places, together. First, I would like to invite you on a test run—just to the town forests and back, but it might go so well we won’t stop until Vancouver. They said at the shop this bike worked magic. I’ve been in Vancouver once, and trust me, the Seawall is lovely. Of course, there is a chance we’ll never get to see it because on our way a bear sidetracks us and soon we find ourselves coaching the hockey team of some friendly beavers. In exchange, they could teach us how to fly on a maple leaf to Egypt!”

 

Abigail’s laughing so hard that tears well up in her eyes. “Wonderful! When do we leave for this amazing journey?”

 

“Right now. I just want to tell you something first.” His serious face calms Abigail down a little but she can still feel happiness bubbling inside her chest. “This is going to be a long journey with a lot of beautiful moments and many pitfalls. We need to learn to ride that bike together. Sometimes the forest can be dark and we can lose our path. Being lost could make us feel small and insignificant, which could lead us to act and speak hastily. There will be times when we argue over the map or which path should we choose, and it might lead to harsh words and frustration. I’m not an easy man to travel with, nor I am a good man. I’ve made mistakes, quite a lot of them, and surely I’ll make some more. But you…” He reaches out, touching her face, caressing it gently. “You’re the gold, Abigail, that keeps me together. You are my sun.”

 

Abigail must lean forward and kiss him because if Henry says one more such beautiful thing, her heart will explode. Also, an awful lot of time passed by since their last kiss. She tries to register every tiny detail: the softness of his lips, how his left hand cups her face, how his right hand is caressing her back, the warmth that spreads in her body every time he touches her, how safe she feels in his arms, and how nice he smells.

 

“I love you,” he breathes into her mouth, before placing small kisses on her lips again and again. “I love you, I love you, and I can’t believe you can love someone so stupid as me.”

 

“Stupid?”

 

“I should have brought a bouquet of tulips instead of ordering your most expensive meal.”

 

Abigail laughs. “You can’t possibly say you’ve had eyes for me that long!”

 

“Well, I was baffled: every time after I had just seen you, I wanted to see you again. I kept dropping things and thought of you when my mind should have been elsewhere. It was most embarrassing, especially I wasn’t certain you really liked me or, you know, just _liked_ me.”

 

“I think my friends noticed that I liked you sooner than me,” Abigail smiles apologetically. “Both of us acted a little short-sighted, I’m afraid.”

 

“You can’t imagine how it feels when you’d forgotten there used to be good in you, then somebody comes and looks at you like you matter.” Henry helds Abigail in his arms, speaking softly, in an almost whisper. “You’ve seen some of my bad days, so it’s time to have the best days together.”

 

“I can feel today is going to be one of many amazing days.”

 

“Well then, shall we?” Henry reluctantly lets go of Abigail, motioning her to the bicycle. “I practiced a lot to be a safe Captain, so now I’m going to steady the bike so you can mount, then I’m going to join you on the bike. You’re the Stoker, but later we can change positions, of course. I know you’re the better cyclist, so tell me if I do something wrong or if you feel unsafe.”

 

It’s sweet how flustered he looks, Abigail thinks. “Aye, Captain. I trust you.”

 

They manage to mount the bike safely, and depart. The road ahead might be bumpy, but they can face any obstacle with love, courage, and kindness. With the sun smiling down at them they pass by Mr. Abernathy, the playing children, and the green house, until they leave behind Abigail’s street.

 

Later Emily Montgomery swears she has seen the bicycle turn into a pegazus, and the two of them flew into the sun...

**Author's Note:**

> English isn't my native language and I didn't have a beta for this fic, so any helpful comments are welcome.


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